


A Life Worth Living

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without Sherlock, John isn't sure what to do with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Worth Living

John was crouched in the shower in his pyjamas, head on his knees, the curtain pulled shut. His eyes were wide open. Outside, someone was knocking on the door.

"John? John, you there?" 

A man's voice. Probably Lestrade, from the sound of it. John clutched at his trousers, breath coming in small, quick gasps. His mouth was trembling a little. 

"John? I thought we'd go for a pint."

His heart felt as if it was about to jump through his chest. He wondered if someone, their neck craned at _just_ the right angle, could peer through the little bathroom window and see his silhouette against the curtain. He tried to make himself smaller. 

There was a moment of silence. The knocking had stopped, as did the voice. John waited - two minutes, three, four - his heart pounding away against his knees the entire time. He counted down from sixty an extra time, for luck, before he raised himself up bodily and leaned against the shower wall. 

John knew Lestrade was worried. Mycroft, too, and Molly. They didn't say it outright, but it showed. The stilted way they talked to him, the bright, toothy smiles they pasted across their faces, the little sideways glances they'd give each other when they thought he couldn't see - it all painted a clear picture of their concern. They thought he was fragile, that he'd crumble if they pushed him too hard or said the wrong thing at the wrong moment. 

It was draining. He tried to avoid them when he could, because he simply hadn't the energy to confront them, but they were terribly persistent. They were unafraid to intrude upon the little space he had left. 

Not that he was under any illusion that the flat was some sort of safehouse, a fortress where he could hole himself away from prying eyes and, finally, rest. They had already entered without his permission, he knew it. He'd come home one day after work and, reaching for his gun, found it missing from its drawer - Mycroft's doing, he was almost certain. No, the flat was not safe.

But he still liked to pretend it was. 

He tilted his chin and pushed his forehead against the shower wall. The tile was cold and soothing against his clammy skin, and he savored the feeling. He stood like that for a long while, eyes shut, palms flat against the wall, his mind drifting quietly back into the past. 

During the weekdays, they were free to tear at him. He would feign interest in their gossip, the tidbits of their home life they fed him, the occasional reminiscence about - him. About Sherlock Holmes.

And he would nod, and make pleasant confirmatory noises, and never particularly add to a conversation in any meaningful way. Because now, without Sherlock - he found there just wasn't much he could stand to say. 

Without Sherlock, the world wasn't right. Without Sherlock, John could feel nothing but empty. Get back up, everyone advised. Go on living. There's so much to do! 

But there wasn't any point. 

So instead he lived mechanically, thoughtlessly, forcing himself to make it to work on time and smile at the others when they greeted him. He moved without thought, hands and arms going through meaningless routine: stitch a cut. Bandage a hangnail. Take someone's temperature. All the while smiling, as if to say: no need to worry. John Watson is okay.

At the end of each workday, as soon as the door to the flat closed behind him, he would stumble out of his shoes, leave his jumper in front of the entrance. On good days, he would sit and watch television. On bad days, he would totter into the downstairs bedroom, crawl into the bed, and wrap the sheets about him tightly. On the worst days, he would wish Mycroft hadn't confiscated his handgun.

He wished for it now, standing in the shower, his forehead red and raised where he'd pressed it into the tile. _There isn't anything,_ he thought. _There is nothing at all. I am nothing at all._ And then he laughed at himself for thinking such idiotic things. 

It was true, though, he realized. Sherlock had given him purpose, a battlefield to navigate, and now it was lost forever. He couldn't - 

He couldn't. 

He stepped out of the shower, into the living room, down the steps. He was barefoot, and still in his pyjamas, but it didn't matter. Outside, everything seemed dazzlingly bright against the nighttime sky. Streetlights and headlights swam by him as he walked, gold and wet in the edges of his vision. He felt weightless, insubstantial. 

He knew this route very well. His body took over for him, walking him down the block, a right here - a left here - across a street - through an imposing set of doors and up a flight of stairs - 

And then he was here, of all places, his bare toes peeking out over the edge of the roof. Below him, the street was empty, and he wondered - had the pavement lurched like this, when he'd looked down? Had the air seemed as delicious to him? Had his breathing come this easily, felt so clean and sweet? John thought so. 

He spread his arms out at his sides. It was strange, he realized - his head was cloudy, his thoughts incoherent, but as he stood there, swaying a bit with the wind, he felt oddly fulfilled. He smiled genuinely for the first time in months - 

And stepped into space.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this story is dumb? i'm half asleep ok


End file.
